


At First

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Impressions, Molly Hooper Appreciation 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: Molly has always trusted her first impressions of people, even though there were often a little strange.





	

It was technically a form of Synaesthesia she supposed, but her Granny had always called it the Vibe, those odd impressions she got of people; colours, images, textures and tastes that became intrinsically linked in her mind with the person.

As far as Molly Hooper was concerned most of the time it was a bloody useless thing that only contributed to her social awkwardness. It’s hard to get through an initial meeting with someone new when your mind is filled with nonsensical images.

Take meeting Mike Stamford for the first time; during his welcome chat she’d had a Three Stooges sketch playing in her mind. It wasn’t at all helpful to be almost giggling while you’re on a tour of the morgue. As she got to know him she discovered his talent for putting his foot in his mouth, which sort of fit with her vibe of him. 

It was strange how often her first impressions would be eerily accurate. Greg Lestrade had shaken her hand and filled her mind with the scent of home cooking, cigarettes and an image of a loyal if sometimes clueless bloodhound. She’d been terrified when Mycroft Holmes had ‘arranged’ a little meeting with her, but the phantom taste of chocolate cake soothed her nerves enough to tell him to shove his offer of a ‘sizeable sum’ to spy on his brother.

John Watson had been nothing more than a bland, blank box until she’d got to know him better, then the taste of steel and gun oil formed along with the texture of woollen jumpers. 

Her first meeting with Sherlock Holmes left her a stuttering mess. The sensation of being plunged into a swirling vortex that had a strange logical beauty overwhelmed her. She’d never had all of her senses assaulted at once before; she was drowning in music, falling through the scent of tobacco and books, buffeted by binary data, choking on the metallic taste of blood and the sweet reek of death. No wonder he’d thought her a babbling fool.

Jim from IT had completely fooled her. She’d got nothing from him but a sense of sweetness. In hindsight that was exactly what he wanted her to see and he’d pulled off the act with a mastery that wasn’t that surprising for a sociopathic master criminal. Her experience with Moriarty had shaken her, caused her to doubt herself. She consoled herself with the fact that she wasn’t the only one he successfully deceived, Sherlock had fallen for his act as well, and she had broken off their relationship because there was a nagging doubt at the back of her mind that Jim was too good to be true. 

Tom had been nothing like Sherlock for all they were similar in looks. The first impression she had of him was of an ideal home, steady friends and family dinners. During the years after the Fall that was comforting, but when Sherlock resurrected she saw it for what it really was, the eye of the storm, a holding pattern and nothing more.


End file.
